A phrase appears somewhere in the bracket of brain and heart;

I am pleased.

Pleasure, however, is a thought outside my zone,

outside,

and cold.

December, it snows and I am warmed by the chatter and scotch.

A train goes by and I wonder, when will it end?

I sift through the mental filing cabinet I’ve been asked to sort out

for the most impressive documents.

Aha! Now this,

this is groundbreaking.

You’re not that special, you know?

You don’t.

No.

And that’s tough.

Hard to accept, so you try to forget

the thought that was presented to you as a gift

on an unwanted anniversary, the last stuffed dog on sale at Walmart that lacks both history and character.

You wanted the heirloom polar bear with the missing left foot because you,

you’re special.

You’re the one

in the multitude,

captured and free.

FREE from the shackles of How One Should Be, but not quite.

Because you cried that day when They preferred Them

and you burned in the beauty of the luminous gem

of fire that lights up the day in which you talk the talk.

Enjoy tomorrow because that’s what it’s for in the end, is it not?

Let’s go with yes, because really we don’t know what the end entails,

but we want to be happy.

Don’t we?

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